


by the fire's light

by sad_magical_girl



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Supernatural Elements, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:07:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24633556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sad_magical_girl/pseuds/sad_magical_girl
Summary: Rachel Amber has let herself become blinded by the dazzling fire that is Mark Jefferson, but she'll be consumed by the flames unless she discovers a fire of her own.
Relationships: Rachel Amber/Chloe Price, Rachel Amber/Mark Jefferson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> IT'S YA BOI
> 
> shout-out to my beta, aratron

She doesn’t remember falling asleep, but she finds herself waking. She slowly becomes aware of her limbs, of the heat being sapped from her body by the icy floor beneath her. She can’t fathom why she’s on the ground instead of the warmth of her bed or maybe the warmth of someone else’s. Maybe the Vortex party had gotten out of hand and she had passed out somewhere.

As soon as the thought bubbles into her mind, she dismisses it. She can drink almost anyone under the table and still keep her poise. She’d once had six shots and landed a skate trick none of the guys dreamed about doing sober… Though she did sometimes have her bad moments. Honestly, Rachel had lost count of the number of times she’d thrown up somewhere she probably shouldn’t have, like in a guy’s shoe at one of Hayden’s house parties. So yes, she could get a little messy at times, but never like this. Never to the point of blacking out. There’s something strange about this.

That’s when the nausea hits. She’s dizzy. It’s like one of those nights where she drinks maybe just a little too much and can still feel the world swimming around her even with her eyes closed. Rachel swears she hadn’t had that much to drink. She wasn’t keeping tabs or anything, but she couldn’t have had more than three beers. Three beers does not equate to this. She swallows hard, trying to block out the sensation, only to find her throat is so dry that swallowing actually hurts.

What the fuck is going on?

Rachel slowly allows her eyes to open. She immediately regrets it when her vision’s met by surging white light. She groans. Without thinking, she tries to lift a hand to shield her eyes only to find that she can’t. Blinking, still trying to avoid the light yet still trying to make sense of where she is, she tilts down her head ever so slightly. Mostly she takes in white; white walls, white flooring, and a headache-inducing white light blaring at her like a sick spotlight. She can feel her pupils sting with the force of it, but she doesn’t dare close her eyes.

Everything around her wavers back and forth, still flooded in that abominable light, but Rachel moves to push herself up. She tries to push her hand to the ground to support her weight only to find that it’s bound to her other hand with what feels like duct tape. 

Rachel’s blood runs cold.

Whatever the fuck was going on, she needed to get out of it. Right the fuck now.

She flexes her wrists again and winces. The adhesive binding them is pretty formidable, and she can already feel her wrists bruising. Not good, she thinks, feeling her heart slamming in her chest. Nausea comes over her again and her stomach swoops. She can feel bile rising in her throat. 

Not now, Rachel begs herself. Get it together. Fucking get it together.

A cold panic fills her, makes her extremities tingle. This is fucked, so fucked. How did she even get here? How did this happen? She remembers the party, making the usual rounds, recalls her routine schmoozing as she passed familiar, albeit intoxicated faces. She knows she was sitting on a cooler, and fuck, she really did only have three beers. She remembers slowly nursing that third Blue Moon before finally understanding that no, it was not an alcohol night, that drinking would only make her remember things she had come to the party to forget.

She’d made her way to the makeshift dance floor to wind and grind, to soak in the admiration of the hungry eyes that watched her. Everyone wanted her, and tonight, she reveled in it.

Rachel waited for the eyes of someone in particular, but he was no fool. Tonight, he was the chaperone and nothing else. And that was okay. At least, that was what Rachel told herself. Yet wanted him there, his hands on her hips, his breath on her neck, so suddenly and so desperately that it startled her. She was caught between craving the desire of people she hardly knew and the person she wanted to know the most. It was a strange feeling, and Rachel decided to shrug it off the best way she knew how: dancing.

When she finally stepped away, she could feel her hair sticking to her face, sweat dripping down her back. Some guy she’d seen around before but hadn’t met--probably from a neighboring high school--had come up from behind her and given her the distraction she needed, at least for a little bit. The physical touch, the attention felt good, especially when Rachel excused herself and she could feel his eyes burning into her back. When she could feel him wanting. They hadn’t even kissed and the guy was sprung.

She knew others had been watching them, too, that the person Rachel wanted to see them together probably had. He was older, mature, and probably not one for playing games, but if there was one thing Rachel knew about him, it was that he was possessive. The show had probably gotten him a little hot under the collar in more ways than one.

Rachel left the dance floor feeling a little less like shit than she had in recent days.

She had headed back to the cooler, looking for something cold to press against her sweaty forehead when Nathan had come up to her double-fisting red plastic cups. She wanted to curse under her breath. 

Sure, Nathan was her friend, she guessed, but she really didn’t want to have to deal with him at that moment. He’d been so damn clingy lately, following her around after every class and texting her at all hours of the night. Even then, he was boring a hole into her skull with his hopeful stare. When it became clear that he wouldn’t leave, Rachel shut the cooler and sat back down on top of it. 

“Nathan,” she’d said, gesturing for him to sit. She had measured her words so they didn’t sound too curt.

“Rachel,” he’d replied, settling in next to her. They watched the party around them unfold in a silence that Rachel wouldn’t classify as strained at worst and a little weird at best. 

“Man, this shit is boring,” Nathan finally sighed. Rachel assumed this comment was meant to pique her interest, but it didn’t. Still, she took the bait to be polite.

“You mean you don’t want to finish an entire fifth of vodka and throw up into the pool?” Nathan snorted.

“Idiots,” he growled. He took a sip from his drink, and the scowl was still on his face when he lowered his cup.

“It’s all so… shallow,” he finally said again. “Who drinks the most, who fucks the most. It’s like, who gives a shit?” Rachel gave an obligatory nod. “Wouldn’t they rather spend their time doing something that matters? Wouldn’t they rather do something people will remember?”

Rachel remembers finding that statement a bit heavy for a Vortex party. Like yes, she felt above high school politics to a certain degree. But at the same time, she was at a Vortex party. 

“If there are so many other better things to be doing, then why are you here?” she asked. Nathan smirked, licked his lips. It was unnerving, like watching a snake taste the air, sniffing out its next kill.

“Isn’t that the fucking question,” he’d said before taking another sip of his drink. “Oh, yeah. For you,” he added, handing her the other cup. Rachel waved her hand.

“I’m solid,” she replied, “but thank you.”

“You sure?” Nathan asked. “Booze is the only thing making this shitshow bearable, and you probably sweat it all out. I saw you dancing out there.”

“You were watching me?” Rachel asked. She already knew the answer because she knew everyone was always watching her. But after seeing that strange expression on his face a moment before, the thought of him watching her made her uncomfortable. 

Was she his prey? The thought had crossed Rachel’s mind before, but she had so much going on in her life already that she didn’t let herself really think it. Not properly. Was Nathan into her? Even through the multicolored lights, she could swear she saw a tinge of pink colored Nathan’s normally pallid cheeks.

“Everyone was watching you,” he’d said with a roll of his eyes. If he had felt embarrassed, he was doing a good job hiding it. “You’re Rachel-fucking-Amber.” Rachel shrugged, trying to physically shrug off her discomfort. She hoped Nathan knew better than to have feelings for her. She was a train wreck and a half, and he was even worse.

“Seriously, take it,” Nathan said again, nudging her hand with the cup. Rachel remembers thinking that it wouldn’t help, knew that all the liquor did was make her heart sink and her head scream insecurities.

But then she saw the hopeful look in Nathan’s eyes, thought maybe she could make at least one person genuinely happy tonight. Even if just for a second.

It was a bad idea. She shouldn’t have given him any false hope. But it wouldn’t be the first time Rachel had done it. She thought of Frank, alone, staring up at the tin roof of his trailer with a can of cheap beer in hand. She thought of Chloe, alone, lying on her bed with a blunt, trying to blow smoke rings up to the ceiling.

Rachel almost snatched the cup from Nathan’s grasp. He smirked.

“To better things than this shit,” he said, raising his glass for a toast. Rachel could drink to that, and she did, tapping her cup against his before taking a long sip. There were a couple more moments of idle chatter, idle enough to make Rachel think that maybe she’d been imagining Nathan saw her that way, before Nathan dismissed himself. 

Almost as soon as he was gone, the guy she’d danced with before reappeared. Before he could even speak, she turned away and drained her drink. Maybe on another day, she would have given him a pity blow. On a day before she’d met Mark. Now this kid was shit out of luck. 

To avoid his watchful gaze, she’d gone outside and found Hayden, who was generously sharing his bowl with Trevor and Justin. And then… that was the last thing she could remember with clarity, the smoke burning in her lungs and then a sudden ease. She was relaxed. So relaxed…

God fucking damn it, Rachel thinks. A few drinks, a few hits shouldn’t have caused her to blackout. It shouldn’t have caused her to wind up here in some godforsaken place, bruised, her head throbbing, her hands bound. 

It suddenly occurs to her that someone did this to her. She didn’t just end up tied up somewhere. Someone had deliberately planned this, who knows how long ago, so that she would wind up in this exact spot. Someone wanted her here, fucked up with no way to escape.

She wiggles her feet only to find that they’ve been covered in layers of tape around her bare ankles. She can’t move her hands or feet, can barely think straight. She’s a fish out of water left to die.

No, she thinks. Fuck no. There’s always a way out. She just needs to clear her head and get the hell out of here. 

She exhales deeply through her nose, tries to calm herself. She’s been stabbed by a psycho drug dealer and walked it off for fuck’s sake. Granted, a sickly sweet girl who loved her in all the worst ways had been there to save her. The thought makes Rachel feel warm with gratitude and sick to her stomach at the same time, and she banishes it to the back of her mind. Now is not the time. Now is the time to focus on getting out. Even if she’s on her own, she can do it. Some sick fuck tying her up is not stopping her. Not today.

Rachel squints. Her head is starting to pound, and the squinting makes it worse, but she recognizes the outline of a table, of a cabinet. She sees some shelves to her left filled with a bunch of red books, maybe volumes or a collection of some sort. The light, she understands now, is actually a studio light not unlike the ones she’d used in her photo shoots with Mark.

Mark, Rachel suddenly thinks. Mark. She has to get a hold of him. He’d seen some pretty fucked up things. He could get her out of this mess, would do it with no questions asked.

But first, she has to get the fuck out of these restraints. After that, she’ll figure out where she is, how to contact Mark. She desperately kicks her legs thinking that maybe it’ll loosen up the duct tape, but it won’t give. She grits her teeth, thrashing even harder; the movement causes everything around her to careen so suddenly that she thinks she might puke, and she has to stop. The frustration, the futility of her situation, brings tears to her eyes.

There’s the sound of something clattering to the floor, followed by a string of curse words, and Rachel’s hazel eyes widen. Sheer panic trumps the thumping in her brain, and a cold sweat trickles down her back.

That voice. There’s no way.

“All of this shit getting in my goddamn way,” she hears, and there’s no mistaking it. She cranes her head back despite the light glaring in her face and sees him in the distance. Wavy brown hair, maroon letterman jacket, jeans, and a pristine pair of white sneakers. He’s squatting down to pick something up, something she can’t make out. However long ago it’d been, they were shooting the shit on a cooler in a sweaty gymnasium. And now…

“Nathan?” Rachel says. She speaks before she has a chance to think better of it, and she’s surprised at the rasp of her voice. Nathan appears even more surprised, however, abandoning what he’s doing to spin around on his heels.

“Rachel?” he says back, sounding almost as bewildered. Rachel’s eyes are finally adjusting to the spotlight. She can see Nathan step forward, his hand quickly going to his jacket pocket. “You shouldn’t be awake yet.” 

It takes Rachel a moment to digest these words. All at once, the realization of what’s happening hits her like a junkyard freight train.

Nathan is not a friend.

“Nathan, what is this place? What’s going on?” Rachel asks. Any dizziness she’d felt has been forgotten to the cold fear brewing in her belly. In the back of her mind, she knows that this isn’t the time for questions; this is the time to try to appeal to Nathan, to get him to let her go. Part of her is still hoping that she’s wrong, though, that Nathan is just as much victim in all of this as she is. That they’re both scared but that they’ll put their heads together and pull through whatever the fuck tthis nightmare is.

“You really shouldn’t be awake yet,” Nathan says again, scowling and shaking his head. Whatever hope Rachel had that he wasn’t behind this evaporates, and she shudders against the cold tile beneath her. Nathan removes his hand from his pocket, revealing what he’d clutched onto as soon as he heard Rachel speak: a syringe.

“Nathan,” Rachel says quickly, all rational thinking now lost to a deep-seated terror she has never felt before. Her entire body screams with alarm. “Nathan, what is that?”

Before he can answer, a tinny tune resounds through the room. Rachel’s eyes widen as she realizes the sound is of someone calling her cell. Maybe someone who knows she’s missing. Maybe Mark?

“Fuck,” Nathan spits, turning his back to Rachel. She can’t see him, but she assumes he’s snatching up her phone. “God damn it!” he shouts, whirling back to Rachel. “Can you tell your whore to stop calling? It’s fucking PATHETHIC,” he nearly screams, and he hurls Rachel’s phone at the ground. It shatters. Rachel cries out in dismay, her one chance for Mark to reach her in pieces on the floor.

Nathan screams, then clutches his head, pulling at his hair. It takes this particular moment for Rachel to understand that there is something inherently wrong about Nathan. Rachel had believed that he was just stressed about his dad, that maybe he did drugs that were a little too hardcore a little too often, that he was pulling some all-nighters because college was right around the corner. For fuck’s sake, she’d thought he had a crush on her. How wrong she had been. How fucking stupid. This went way beyond any of those things.

“Fuck,” Nathan shouts again, now pacing back and forth, glaring at the tile. Then he moves so suddenly that Rachel starts, audibly gasps. Nathan ignores her as he snatches up something from a metal table. 

“Always take the shot, Nate,” he murmurs to himself. He turns back to Rachel, and in place of the syringe, she sees a chunky DSLR camera clutched in his hands.

“Nathan,” Rachel says again. She’s always acting for someone, has kind of prided herself on it, but this time, there are no theatrics. She’s simply a terrified girl, whispering a plea, a prayer. “Nathan, whatever this is… please, let me go.”

Nathan’s whole body sags, his shoulders drooping, eyes falling to the floor. He almost looks regretful as he shakes his head.

“I can’t, Rach,” he says. He doesn’t look at her when he speaks, but somewhere beyond. “I can’t.”

“You can,” Rachel urges him. Tears sting her eyes, and she wonders how she’s managed to keep from sobbing for so long. “Nate, I won’t tell anyone. Nathan, I promise. I promise you.” The expression Rachel’s face must be too much for him to bear because he turns away, a whine escaping his throat.

“I can’t,” Nathan says again, still making a point of not looking at his captive. “I have to do this. It’s the only way he’ll respect me. It’s the only way he won’t stop caring.”

“Who? Who won’t stop caring? Nathan, please. Who’s doing this to you?” Apparently this is the wrong thing to say; Nathan turns back to Rachel with a snarl.

“He’s not doing anything to me,” Nathan growls. “He’s brilliant, and I’m… I’m a cluster-fuck-up.” Nathan seems to find some resolve from somewhere, suddenly straightening up and setting his jaw. “But he still took me in. He still treats me like I’m worth a damn.” Nathan shakes his head again as though to clear any doubts. 

“I’m doing this because I want to do this,” he says finally. “Because it would make him proud. I know it would.” And as terrified as Rachel feels, this bewilders her, truly and utterly.

“Nathan,” she says slowly, and her astonishment is replaced with rage. “Nathan, what the fuck are you talking about? You want to make someone proud by… by drugging girls and tying them up? Taking fucked up pictures of them? Is this really the kind of person you want in your life?”

“Shut up,” Nathan screeches, and Rachel flinches. Fuck, Rachel, she thinks to herself. She has to remember that Nathan is not okay, that she can’t go on the offensive. She’s dealing with a wounded animal and has to treat him as such.

“I’m sorry,” Rachel quickly says. “I didn’t mean to upset you. Just… you know I care about you. You know that. Right?” She does, to an extent. Not a significant one, but he doesn’t need to know that. “This person, whoever you’re doing this for… think about it. Think about what you’ve done tonight, Nathan. This shit is insanely illegal. Do you really want to be a part of this just for someone’s approval?” And that does seem to give Nathan some pause; he stops fidgeting with the camera and finally looks at Rachel, really sees her. Something bubbles up in Rachel’s chest. It takes her a moment to realize that the feeling is hope. She wants to shove it back down because it is too dangerous to feel right now, yet at the same time, she almost doesn’t mind that she can’t make it stop.

After a long silence, Nathan speaks.

“He’s the only one, Rachel,” he says quietly, his voice broken. “He’s the only one who gives a fuck about me. Not my piece of shit dad, not that ass-kisser Wells. Just Mark. I have to do this.”

Rachel should feel afraid. She should feel afraid because she sees Nathan set down the camera and pick the syringe back up. What she feels, instead, is stunned. Nathan is still speaking, maybe still convincing himself that drugging and kidnapping his classmates is for the greater good. Rachel doesn’t know. She doesn’t hear any of it. All she hears, over and over again is the word, the name.

Mark.

“Mark,” Rachel whispers. She’s not even aware she’d said it until Nathan stops ranting to look at her.

“Shit,” Nathan hisses through his teeth. “I’ve gotten too sloppy. He’s going to be pissed.” Nathan examines the syringe under the fluorescent lighting then flicks it a couple times with his finger and his thumb. He looks back at Rachel. “Nothing a little bit of this won’t fix.”

“Mark,” Rachel says again, and she feels dazed. “Mark… Mr. Jefferson knows you’re doing this?” Nathan squats down beside Rachel, searches her expression for something. Finally, Nathan responds.

“Not yet. He doesn’t know that I have you. But you… you’ll be the best one yet, Rach.” Nathan pulls back the plunger on the syringe. 

“I’m sorry I had to do this to you. But you’ll forget, and you’ll be okay. Everyone will be back to worshipping the ground you walk on.”

“No,” Rachel says, her voice so quiet that it barely registers even to herself.

“You’ll be okay,” Nathan murmurs, more to himself than Rachel, and then Rachel feels his shadow loom over her.

It’s gone almost as quickly as it appeared. Nathan steps back, his eyes wide and his mouth drooping.

“What the ever-loving fuck--” he manages to stammer before suddenly, spontaneously, the sleeve of his letterman catches fire. The syringe clatters to the ground, forgotten, as Nathan stares at his arm in one part horror, one part wonder. He slaps his left hand against his burning right forearm in an attempt to smother the flames.

“No,” Rachel says aloud again, though she doesn’t realize it. No, Nathan does not get to be okay. Nathan gets to burn.

As suddenly as the first flame began, another springs to life on Nathan’s left arm.

“What the--what the fuck?” Nathan wheezes. The panic in his eyes is palpable, and Rachel likes it. She likes watching him watch himself burn.

The flames burn brighter and begin to spread. They’re over his torso now, his chest. Nathan screams, incoherent, terrified. He looks directly at Rachel, and the sheer horror in his brown eyes is met with the smoldering calm of her hazel.

“HELP ME,” Nathan shouts. “I’M SORRY. FUCK, I’M SORRY. HELP ME.” 

Rachel remains lying on her side, face impassive. She feels something warm dripping down her wrists, but she refuses to look away from the spectacle Nathan has become for a single moment.

She should be scared, she knows that. Even if Nathan did drug and kidnap her, he’s literally on fucking fire. They were friends once upon a time, too. Maybe not tonight, not anymore. But Rachel can remember them sitting together on the quad, laughing together in the shade of a pine tree. She recalls him proudly brandishing a chem test she’d helped him study for, the A- at the top nearly leaping off the paper. It should be traumatic, watching him crumple to the ground, hearing his screams of utter agony. This should be hard to watch, but it’s not.

Rachel makes no move to help, just stares. He screams obscenities at her until the fire burns so hot that he forgets how to speak. Not long after, he lies in a crumpled heap. And Rachel knows it, like she knows when the thunder will rumble after the strike of lightning. 

Nathan is dead.

Nathan is dead, and she killed him. 

She’s not sure how, doesn’t know where the flames came from or how they were even possible, but she knows without a doubt that it was her.

Rachel should be scared, but she’s not.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a harrowing night, Rachel seeks comfort from Chloe. She's still not sure whom she can trust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still shouting out to my beta, aratron

Ordinarily at four AM, discretion is of the essence. Ordinarily, Rachel Amber is known for being mysterious, if not a bit romantic. 

On a normal night, she would slink around the driveway of the Price household, scouring the cement for pebbles she could throw at Chloe’s bedroom window. Most pebbles never got close, bouncing off the house’s siding before landing soundlessly in the bushes. Admittedly, Rachel’s aim wasn’t very good, but at this point, it had become a ritual. She would count how many stones she cast, how many it took before she was greeted by a sweet, sleepy smile and blue bedhead. 

“You know, you could just call me,” Chloe would say with a lopsided smile. She already knew Rachel would never agree to this, but she had to say it anyway.

“Now, what would be the fun in that?” Rachel would ask, a crooked smile of her own spreading across her face.

Tonight, Rachel has no time for discretion nor mystery. Of course, the one time she wishes she could call Chloe, could just sneak in with her through her front door, she can’t. Her tattered phone is in her pocket--she couldn’t leave it to be found in that fucked-up bunker along with Nathan and all the other horrors--and Nathan’s fit had ensured it was irreparably damaged.

Rachel opts instead to climb on top of the garage, then crawl across the roof’s thick, rubber tiles until she finds herself outside Chloe’s room. After everything she’s been through tonight, the effort to get up to Chloe’s window has been genuinely Herculean; her body aches--her feet especially from walking back into town--and everything still feels fuzzier than it should. Whatever drugs Nathan had given her had really fucked her up. At least he’d never be able to do it again.

Rachel grits her teeth as she knocks as gently as she can against Chloe’s window. She hopes that the sharp sound of knuckles against glass carries only to Chloe; dealing with David after all the other shit would really be the cherry on top of the most fucked-up night of her life.

Too many moments pass, Rachel barely breathing as she prays for Chloe to open the window. She’s exhausted but too full of adrenaline to allow her eyes a moment to rest. She isn’t sure that she could sleep even if she wanted. Not with the things she’s seen tonight. Her skin prickles with the memory of flames, of screams, of black and white photos.

It’s taking too long, so impossibly long. Despite knowing the action could end poorly, she raises a fist to knock against the window a second time. As her knuckles are about to strike, Rachel sees a lanky silhouette and then a shock of blue hair. She releases a shaky breath as the window opens.

And it’s Chloe. Everything is Chloe. The rough hands that gently guide her across the window frame, the same hands that come up to either side of her face. The smell of her room, part weed, part cologne, the last part something distinctly her. The sapphire of her eyes, though they’re rimmed with red. Rachel finds she can’t hold her gaze, but she doesn’t have to.

“Where have you been?” Chloe hisses. She’d be screaming if it weren’t the middle of the night, Rachel knows. She understands that Chloe is only pissed because she cares, cares entirely too much. She knows she fills the cracks in the crevices of Chloe’s mind, occupies the spaces between her ribs. Chloe is upset because she’s a good person, better than Rachel deserves. She knows this, too, because as unfair as it is to her, Rachel just wants to skip the part where Chloe rages so she can move on with her life.

“I’ve been calling you all night,” Chloe says, her voice low but grating. “Why didn’t you answer?” She runs her thumbs down the sides of Rachel’s cheeks. The gesture is too intimate, and Rachel backs away. Chloe swallows hard, her throat bobbing, before she pulls away. Rachel can see her folding in on herself; one arm hangs limply by her side, and she holds it close to her chest with her other hand. She looks away from Rachel, down at the hardwood as though there’s something there worth contemplating. Rachel’s chest seizes momentarily.

She doesn’t want to think about what it means. Rachel chooses to answer the question Chloe asked aloud rather than the one that hangs between them. She reaches into her right pocket and pulls out her dented phone, shattered screen and all. Chloe glances over at the movement, and her eyebrows lift as she takes in the damage. 

“Holy hell,” she murmurs. “Must have been one hell of a Vortex party.” 

The Vortex party. Oh God. Rachel hadn’t even thought about it. The flashing lights, the sweet punch soured by alcohol, the bodies pressed against her on the dancefloor. It felt like it had happened a lifetime ago.

“Rachel?” Chloe says softly. Rachel snaps her head up to look at her. 

Chloe lifts a hand, then quickly lowers it back to her side. Rachel is glad Chloe thinks better of touching her. With everything going on, the safety of Chloe’s touch is less than deserved, yet the uncertainty of it is too much for her to handle.

“Sorry,” Rachel breathes. Chloe’s eyebrows knit together.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

Where to start?

Initially, Rachel had decided to tell only Mark about what had taken place tonight. There were too many pieces, things were too messy. Mark was the only person she could be completely honest with. 

At least, that was what she had thought. Nathan’s words still rang more loudly than the rest of the chaos ravaging her mind. 

“He’s the only one who gives a fuck about me... Just Mark.”

Mark… Her Mark...

Before she realizes it, Rachel’s being swept up in the other girl’s embrace. Chloe is a little bony but soft in all the right places, and the scent of her skin puts Rachel’s mind at ease even if only for a moment. She relaxes into Chloe’s arms, letting her head come to rest on her shoulder. Only then, when she feels the moisture against Chloe’s skin, does Rachel realize that she’s crying. Maybe has been for a while. Chloe’s arms tighten around her waist, and Rachel reciprocates, nuzzles her face into the warmth of Chloe’s neck.

She doesn’t deserve this kindness, but fuck does she want it. She loses herself in it for a moment, in the solidity of Chloe’s body pressed into hers.

What would Mark do if she had suddenly shown up on his doorstep at four AM, Rachel wonders. Would he take her into his arms like this? Would he give her space to process without asking any questions? 

When she told him the truth, would he protect her from Nathan?

Mark, refined, intelligent, even sweet Mark. Mark, who’d taken pictures of her on the beach in the soft twilight, who didn’t get mad when she dragged him into the waves and splashed seawater all over his expensive dress pants. Mark, who studied her ever so intently no matter what she did, making her feel like something as ordinary as painting her toenails was unique and wonderful and bigger than itself. Mark, who’d set her on fire with his touch, a touch simultaneously unrestrained and calculated.

Nathan had kidnapped her to impress him. Did Nathan really think that taking pictures of unconscious teenage girls would win Mark over? The easy explanation, the one Rachel desperately wants to believe, is that Nathan was psychotic through and through and that this would have been a strange, unsuccessful ploy to appeal to Mark. She wants to believe that if Nathan had shown him the pictures, Mark would have been disgusted and used his outrage as leverage over Nathan. Nathan, ever the sack of shit but still so desperate for Mark’s approval that he would kidnap someone, would never do it again. Mark would kneel before her, take her hands in his, and promise her that she would always be safe with him.

That is what she wants to believe.

A less pleasant but more plausible path would be Mark’s defense of Nathan. Maybe he would give Nathan a pass, saying he’d only done it in the name of art, or he would play Nathan off as someone slightly misguided who had made one bad choice. 

It was so much more than that. Nathan had been positively strung out. He’d clutched his head, screamed like something in his mind physically caused him pain. He was practically spitting foam as he told Rachel about his plan to photograph her. No, Nathan was a fucking psycho, and she couldn’t trust Mark if he didn’t feel the same.

Another part of her fears that Nathan was right. Maybe Mark would actually enjoy the sight of her drugged, bound, defenseless. She knows Mark has been some dark places, seen things most people would pray to forget. Was there some part of Mark that didn’t just live those experiences, but indulged in them? Was he some sick fuck getting his rocks off at pictures of unconscious girls? Did Nathan know this about him?

Worse yet was the last alternative, the one that Rachel hasn’t dared to let herself think. In the comfort of Chloe’s room, the thought pierces the thin ice that is her peace of mind. 

What if Mark knew?

What if he let Nathan take her?

The dread in Rachel’s chest is strong enough that quiet gasps to evolve into full, messy sobs. Chloe, perhaps overwhelmed but doing a good job of hiding it, moves them to her bed. She sits with her back against the wall, and Rachel sits in her lap with her arms around her neck. She cries in a way she’s sure Chloe hasn’t seen since she told her the truth about her mother three years before.

Sweet Chloe, naive Chloe, doesn’t say a word. She rubs circles of varying sizes into Rachel’s back, coos to her every so often that everything is okay.

But nothing is okay. And it’s possible nothing will be ever again.  
\--  
“I’m sorry,” Rachel whispers into the space between them. She and Chloe lie next to each other propped up on their sides. Birds chirp outside the window, and the sky is tinged pink with the first traces of the morning sun. It had taken that long for Rachel to be able to speak.

“Sorry for what?” Chloe whispers back. She moves a strand of hair from Rachel’s face, which is pale and streaked with tears and mascara. Rachel shakes her head, sighs.

“Everything,” she says finally. Because it’s true. What wasn’t she sorry about at this point? Chloe grips Rachel’s free hand and squeezes it tight.

“Don’t be,” Chloe says firmly. Then, with less authority, “I’m… sorry I couldn’t be there for you.”

“It’s okay,” Rachel murmurs. Chloe remains uncharacteristically quiet, doesn’t try to rebut. She understands this isn’t the time for it, and Rachel is grateful. Instead, Chloe alternates between lightly running a hand through Rachel’s disheveled blonde hair and gently tracing the bruises on her wrists. The tenderness stops Rachel’s heart and makes her throat thick. She talks through it just to forget the feeling, if only for a moment.

“I…” Rachel tries to swallow past the lump in her throat. “I’m sorry I still haven’t told you what happened. I would, but I... I don’t want to get you involved if I don’t have to.”

“I want to know,” Chloe says without hesitation. “Whoever hurt you... I swear to God, Rach. I’ll kill them.” And Rachel doesn’t doubt it. But the person who hurt her is already dead.

“You don’t have to worry about it,” she mutters. “They’re out of the picture.” Chloe frowns.

“What exactly does that mean, ‘out of the picture’?” 

“Just that you don’t have to worry about them hurting me… or anyone else… ever again.” Chloe’s eyes harden. Not typically one to mince words, Rachel is briefly bemused to see Chloe mull over what to say next. Her jaw works almost as though she’s chewing the words in her mouth.

“If you’re not ready to talk,” she says finally, “I don’t want to push you. But... it’s clear that something happened and I… I hate feeling like I can’t protect you.” Chloe swallows, averts her eyes.

“I know,” Rachel whispers. She closes her eyes because the hurt on Chloe’s face is too much to bear.

“It’s just… it’s like Damon all over again. Me standing there, not doing a damn thing while you get hurt. I told myself I’d never let anything like that happen again, but here we are…” Rachel can hear the thickness in Chloe’s voice and it feels like it’s strangling her, too.

“I wasn’t even there,” Chloe moans. “I couldn’t have done anything. I just kept calling you on a smashed fucking phone.”

“It’s okay,” Rachel says. Sweet Chloe, naive Chloe. How could she think for a second that any of this was her fault? How could she blame herself for not being there? Especially with how Rachel had been acting lately. Once Mark had entered the picture, Rachel hadn’t been the best friend she should have been. 

But Chloe is here anyway, right now, unknowingly but likely willingly about to implicate herself in a murder that had nothing to do with her. The least Rachel could do was try to protect her, actually do something for Chloe for once. 

God, Rachel thinks, I’m such a fuck-up.

She moves closer to Chloe so that their bodies are pressed together. Without a thought, Chloe drapes a free arm over her. She briefly has the thought that friends don’t do this, don’t hold each other like this. Her mind flashes to a couple nights earlier, her head nuzzled on Mark’s bare chest. 

“Fuck,” Rachel groans, trying to dispel both of the thoughts from her head. Chloe immediately raises her head, her eyes sharp.

“What?” Rachel pauses for a moment, her eyes closed.

“Nothing,” she finishes weakly, opening her tired eyes. The sting of disappointment on Chloe’s face is clear as day. She’s tired of disappointing her. She wishes she could tell her everything. Not just about what happened tonight, but her dealing on the side for Frank. Her fucking Mark. Her loving Mark. But Rachel is selfish, and she can’t lose Chloe right now. Not yet.

Still, Chloe deserves something. Anything.

Rachel decides to let the evidence speak for itself. She leans up and puts a hand into the right pocket of her jean shorts. Chloe watches intently, wordlessly. Rachel pulls out scraps of paper folded many times over. Her hands shake as she unfolds them, and Chloe places an encouraging hand on her thigh.

Once the bundle of papers is unfolded completely, she hands them to Chloe without a word. Chloe gently takes the photos from her outstretched hand. She looks at the series of photos without a sound. Rachel watches her reach over to her bedside lamp and flick it on. The light only confirms what Chloe thought she had seen in the dark, what she didn’t want to believe was true.

Rachel, eyes half open and glazed over, lying on her back, her arms above her head. The duct tape that binds her wrists together is out of view, but Nathan’s head rests on her chest as he stares wistfully at the camera. In another, she lies on her side with her leg bent at the knee. Her eyes are closed and the duct tape around her ankles is visible, but otherwise, the pose could be mistaken for casual. Almost as though she were reading a magazine in bed. In yet another photo, one before Nathan had restrained based on the lack of tape, Rachel lies on her back with her arms and legs spread. If you didn’t look too closely, the photo seemed almost innocuous as well, as if Rachel were trying to make a snow angel. The haziness in her eyes, her half-open mouth, are the only clues that something is wrong.

Upon seeing the photos again, Rachel feels her stomach turn. She had already thrown up in the bunker a couple of times: once because she’d stood up too fast with the drugs still in her system, and the other after realizing the burnt air that filled the room was actually the smell of Nathan’s charred, now decomposing corpse. She tears her eyes away before she winds up emptying her stomach for a third time and looks up at Chloe instead. Her eyes are still locked on the black and white photos in her hands. 

For a long time, Chloe says nothing, simply stares at the pictures.

When she finally looks up, her hands shake and her face is beet red.

“Nathan did this to you,” Chloe says finally, her voice wavering. Rachel feels her already reddened eyes brim with hot tears. She gives a slight nod.

“Where is he,” Chloe growls. She’s not asking; she’s demanding. Chloe jumps up from the bed, and it startles Rachel. Chloe swipes her phone from her nightstand and stuffs it into her sleep shorts as she says again, “Where the fuck is he?”

“Chloe--” Rachel tries to interject, but Chloe won’t have it. She storms over to her closet, drops onto her knees, and disappears behind a mountain of fabric. Clothes and trinkets go flying as she searches for something within the closet’s depths. Rachel watches from the bed, confused more than anything. There’s a pause, and when Chloe finally gets back onto her feet, she’s gripping something in her hand.

A pistol.

“Chloe!” Rachel gasps, rising to her feet. She quickly covers her mouth with both hands, partially because she’s being too loud for whatever time it is, but also because she can’t believe what she’s seeing. “Where did you--when did you--”

“Stole it from stepdouche,” she says through gritted teeth, “when I didn’t hear from you. Now, tell me where Nathan is.”

“Chloe, no. It’s--God, Chloe, put that away!” Chloe vigorously shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes. 

Nathan off the rails, Rachel knew nothing about, but Chloe she could handle. Chloe, she has handled. Rachel steps over to her, slowly raises a hand to the other girl’s cheek. Chloe automatically leans into her touch, releases a shuddering breath.

“Don’t, Rachel,” she breathes. “Don’t try to talk me out of this.”

“Please, Chloe,” Rachel murmurs. Tears trip down Chloe’s cheeks. Rachel wipes them away with her thumb, runs her fingers along Chloe’s jaw to calm her. “Please.”

“But he--”

“It’s okay, Chloe. It’s okay. I’m okay. We’re okay, all right?” Rachel gradually lowers her other hand to Chloe’s, the one that’s holding the gun. “We’re okay,” she says again, hoping she sounds more confident than she feels.

Chloe sighs again, her shoulders shaking, but she lets the weapon drop to the rug.

“That’s my girl,” Rachel whispers. Chloe dissolves into her, holding her as if Rachel might disappear if she lets go. Chloe had put on a brave face for her, and Rachel loved her dearly for that. But if she was suffering, Rachel didn’t want her to smile through it for her sake. Especially not if she had access to a gun. 

It isn’t particularly shocking to see her with a pistol, knowing Chloe the way she does, but the depth of Chloe’s love for her still startles her sometimes. She’s really willing to kill Nathan for what he’d done to her. She didn’t fucking hesitate.

Neither did I, when it came down to it, Rachel realizes. She had watched Nathan burn without batting an eyelid. What does that say about her, that she murdered Nathan without a second thought? What does that say about her that she had enjoyed it?

“We’re okay,” Rachel murmurs again. If she says it enough, maybe she’ll start to believe it.

Moments pass like this, the two holding each other in the middle of Chloe’s room. Chloe silently shakes with sobs, and Rachel tries to soothe her just how Chloe had soothed her. She rubs circles into her back, tells her soft, sweet things she has no business saying. It works, because after a few minutes, Chloe takes a deep breath and rubs at her eyes with the back of her hand. 

“Sorry for having a total bitch fit,” she says with a sniffle. She’s trying to keep things light, but it’s clear neither of them is feeling particularly jovial.

“You wouldn’t be the first one tonight,” Rachel replies. Chloe snorts humorlessly. Rachel walks back over to Chloe’s bed. Instead of flopping into it face-first like she normally does, she perches on the end. Her shoulders hunch together, and her hands begin to fidget in her lap. Chloe sits next to her. She doesn’t talk to try to enter Rachel’s space, and Rachel is grateful for that.

It’s peaceful, just being here with Chloe. Safe. Maybe that’s why she suddenly says, “Nathan’s dead.”

Chloe’s head whips up as she turns to look at Rachel. Rachel can feel her blue eyes search her face for a hint of a joke. But Rachel is as solemn as ever, staring straight ahead with dull eyes.

“Dead?” Chloe repeats in a stunned whisper. Rachel nods. Chloe’s mouth closes, opens, and then shuts again. “But… how?” Rachel feels her eyes fill with tears again, and she wills them away.

“I… you already know too much. But he can’t hurt me, okay?” Chloe shifts so her whole body faces Rachel.

“‘Know too much’? Rachel, you show up here at an ungodly hour all banged up with… with… photos of yourself, and then you suddenly tell me Nathan is dead. I… Rachel, I don’t know anything at all. I don’t understand--”

“It’s better if you don’t,” Rachel says, halfway between plain tired and exasperated.

“Bullshit. I’m sorry, Rach. I know you may not want to talk about this, but you can’t say something like that and then keep me in the dark. It only makes me--” Chloe pauses, flustered. “It only makes me worry more.”

Chloe is too good for her own sake. Chloe loves Rachel too much for her own good.

Chloe doesn’t need to know the whole truth, not about the fire or how she killed Nathan. She doesn’t need an accomplice. But maybe Chloe can help her with something else, the one torment she knows will keep her from sleeping tonight.

“There were… binders,” Rachel says quietly. 

“Binders?” Rachel nods, licks her chapped lips.

“The pictures of me weren’t the only ones. There were other girls. I didn’t recognize them, but they were all…” Rachel gestures vaguely in the air. “Same as I was.” Chloe’s lips clamp together and maroon rises in her cheeks.

“Nathan,” she says slowly. “When he died… was it painful?” 

Rachel regards Chloe for a moment. There’s fire in her ice blue eyes, unbridled rage.

“Yeah,” Rachel says finally. Chloe nods.

“Good.”

The two sit in silence, watching the shadows of birds on the roof play across the ceiling. More moments pass, half serene, half Rachel wanting to crawl out of her skin. It could have been just another night at Chloe’s if not for the heaviness between them.

“There was a whole bunker,” says Rachel eventually. “There was photography equipment, like lights and cameras and stuff to develop photos. But there was also enough canned food and shit to last for, like, twenty years at least.”

“Figures the Prescotts have a rich person doomsday bunker. Fucking freaks.” 

Rachel nods, licks her lips again. She’s feeling uncharacteristically nervous. It figures, though, with all of the terrible firsts she’s experienced tonight. 

“There was… someone else,” she slowly admits. The thing Rachel can’t stop herself from thinking about. Chloe’s eyebrows draw together, maybe with confusion or apprehension. 

“What do you mean?”

The words run through Rachel’s mind again, cause goosebumps to rise on her skin: “He’s the only one who gives a fuck about me... Just Mark.”

Could she really do this to him? Could she throw the man who’d become her everything under suspicion of a heinous crime? 

Surely he wasn’t involved. Mark is a good man. Rachel knows this. He’s taught her so much, loved her even through her teenage drama and antics. He’s her rock, and she’s his. 

But the photos she’d found in that binder looked familiar. Somehow. 

“I don’t know,” Rachel says finally. “I don’t know who it was, but Nathan couldn’t have done it all alone. Plus, there were girls in that binder who didn’t go to Blackwell or Arcadia High.” Chloe’s face hardens with resolve. 

“Then we’ll find the other sick fuck who’s taking pictures of defenseless girls. And when we do,” Chloe cracks her knuckles with a surprising ferocity, “castration will seem tame.” Rachel nods, her throat dry.

They would find the other person who’d filled those binders. And when they did, it wouldn’t be Mark. She knows it won’t be.

Yeah. There’s no reason to worry.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rachel and Chloe plan what comes next. Chloe suspects she knows who took the photos Nathan didn't.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [shout-out to my beta aratron intensifies]

Rachel stays at Chloe’s the day after the party. It’s actually Chloe’s idea--she grabs Joyce and tells her that Rachel isn’t feeling so hot. One look at her pallid complexion and at the bags under her eyes, and Joyce makes the call to Blackwell. 

Rachel is more grateful than words can express, because the thought of going to Blackwell and pretending everything is fine makes her stomach churn. She could do it if she really had to, but it certainly wouldn’t be her most convincing act. Then again, everyone watches her, but no one sees her. Not really. As long as she played the part well enough, no one would bat an eyelid.

Rachel is up first, and not just because Chloe sleeps like death; exhaustion got her to fall asleep almost immediately, but her slumber had been understandably restless. When she finally decides to give up on sleep, she finds her legs tangled with Chloe’s. Chloe’s head is right under her chin, and Rachel can smell a mix of smoke, shampoo, and Chloe herself in her hair. She wraps an arm around Chloe’s waist so she can feel the gentle rise and fall of her body and wishes she could sleep as deeply as the girl beside her.

The quiet of the moment, the familiarity of the person and the space, the morning sun streaming ever so slightly through the blinds, trickling across Chloe’s face. It all transports Rachel back to last summer. They’d spent almost every day together, splashing around in the ocean, getting high at the lighthouse, tagging up the junkyard. They’d spent almost every night together, too, sometimes in Rachel’s bed watching the star projector Chloe made her, at other times in Chloe’s, listening to her stereo. 

Once the school year started, moments like those became much more scarce. Mark Jefferson walked into the classroom that first day of class and straight into Rachel’s life. Things between her and Chloe hadn’t been the same since. She was sure Chloe could sense it, but both of them pretended that nothing had changed.

Neither of them brought up that night, either. That day late summer that would’ve changed everything, had Mark Jefferson not started teaching at Blackwell Academy just a couple weeks later. But Rachel doesn’t let herself think of that night, ever, and she’s sure Chloe does the same.

Still, for just a moment, she allows herself to indulge in the memory. She remembers Chloe’s hands, surprisingly soft despite the calluses, on either side of her face. She remembers how her breathing hitched, remembers Chloe whispering, “Sorry,” into the dark. She remembers grabbing Chloe by the front of her shirt, breathless, and pulling her closer.

And then she doesn’t. The moment is shoved into the dark recesses of her mind to be forgotten. She hopes it won’t return any time soon because the ache in her chest is too much to bear.

Rachel gets up carefully so as not to disturb Chloe’s slumber and slinks into the hallway. She’s tiptoeing and holding her breath when she remembers that it’s Monday. That means David is at Blackwell and that she can rest easy. She exhales deeply and steps into the Price bathroom. She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror and immediately looks away. She can’t stand looking at herself these days.

Rachel washes her face, unabashedly drinks from the tap for a few moments, then dries herself off. As she walks out, she makes a point of avoiding the mirror.

When she slips back into Chloe’s room, Chloe’s sitting up in bed, already awake. Barely, hands rubbing at her eyes, hair flying in all directions, but awake.

“You okay?” Chloe mumbles. Her voice is a little hoarse, but Rachel likes the raspiness. She makes her way over to the bed and sits on its edge, turned toward Chloe. 

“Yeah, I’m okay. Just went to the bathroom. Did I wake you?”

“It’s fine.” Chloe gives a great yawn. “How do you feel?”

Rachel shakes her head, frowns. “Like none of this is real.” 

Chloe bites the inside of her cheek, places a reassuring hand on Rachel’s back. “Hey, it’s all right. We’re going to figure this out, okay?” Rachel isn’t convinced, but she nods anyway. Believing the alternative is too much for her to bear. 

Chloe must sense Rachel’s unease and says, “Hey.” Rachel looks up at her, and Chloe continues. “Before we get into all that heavy stuff, there’s something we need to do.” 

Rachel’s head cocks to one side. “What’s that?” she asks. Chloe offers her a toothy grin.

“Breakfast!” she grandly announces.

“Breakfast?” Rachel repeats. Not the answer she expected. Chloe vigorously nods.

“We gotta get some bacon into you. Your ass is too scrawny.” Rachel rolls her eyes but smiles in spite of herself.

“My ass is fantastic, thanks.” Then the events of the previous night flash through her mind, and the smile slips from her face. “I’m not really hungry, though, Chloe,” she says with a grimace.

“Doesn’t matter,” Chloe retorts, pulling herself out of bed. “Either I’m going to make you eat or Joyce will. Pick your poison, Amber.” Rachel expels a puff of air in annoyance. Chloe’s guilt she can deal with, but not Joyce’s. 

In a matter of minutes, she finds herself seated at the Price dining table while Chloe stands at the stove, frying up bacon and singing a song with many explicatives. Chloe is trying, and Rachel knows it. She appreciates the effort, she really does. But all she wants to do is lie in bed, cry, and pretend that none of this is happening. Chloe likely knows this, too, which is why she’s making such a big show of breakfast. It’s sweet, but Rachel isn’t sure it’s what she needs.

Joyce walks downstairs as Chloe starts to work on the waffles and almost keels over in shock.

“Is that my daughter? Up before noon on a day off?” she drawls, a hand flying up to cover her mouth. Chloe rolls her eyes and fires off something sassy--Rachel doesn’t hear it. She’s focused on the exchange itself, how normal it feels to see Chloe bickering with her mom over breakfast. 

Joyce turns to Rachel, asks her how she’s feeling. Her tongue thick in her mouth, she says, “So much better, Joyce. Thank you so much for letting me stay here. You pretty much saved my life.” She’s lying, of course, but Joyce doesn’t need to know that. 

Joyce wraps her in a hug as she says, “Of course, sweetheart. You’re welcome here any time. I’m just glad you’re doing better.” She steals a piece of bacon, to Chloe’s chagrin, and then announces that she’s leaving for the diner. Rachel sees her to the door while Chloe shouts goodbye from the kitchen. 

It’s bizarre. Everything feels the same as it always has, like she didn’t murder someone twelve hours before.

Rachel has a hard time eating, and neither she nor Chloe are surprised. She eats just enough to appease the chef, a couple pieces of bacon and a quarter of a waffle, before pushing her plate over.

“You sure?” Chloe asks, and Rachel nods. 

“Have at it.” Chloe doesn’t need to be told twice; she stabs a fork into Rachel’s waffle and drops it on her plate. She eats it almost as quickly.

When breakfast is over, Chloe suggests Rachel take a shower. “It’ll make you feel better,” she says, handing Rachel a purple towel from the linen closet. And Chloe is probably right, but the thought of doing something as productive as showering exhausts her. 

In the end, she flops face-down onto Chloe’s bed, unmoving. She feels the dip in the mattress as Chloe sits next her, then Chloe’s fingertips running up and down her back. Rachel suddenly feels so tired, even more than before. She lets her eyes shut as Chloe’s hand rhythmically moves back and forth. It’s just what Rachel needs. She doesn’t even realize when she falls asleep.  
\--  
When Rachel next wakes, she’s bathed in amber streams of sunlight. Eyes still half shut, she rolls over and reaches for her phone on Chloe’s nightstand. The bright white screen reveals that it’s just past five in the evening. That means she actually got a decent amount of sleep.

When she rolls back over toward Chloe, she realizes that she isn’t there. Alarmed, Rachel immediately sits up--only to see Chloe seated in front of her laptop, head bopping to something in her headphones. The rush of relief Rachel feels is physical; she would be embarrassed if she had the capacity for more emotion.

In an uncharacteristic move, Rachel slips out of bed and slowly wraps her arms around Chloe’s shoulders. Chloe, with her back turned to the other girl, jumps slightly before she realizes what’s happening. She plucks her headphones from her ears and then places her hand on Rachel’s forearm.

“Hey,” Chloe says softly, leaning her head back into her best friend. “You sleep okay?” Rachel nods. She lets go of Chloe, and Chloe swivels around in her chair to face her.

“You could’ve woken me up, though. I wouldn’t have minded.” 

Chloe shakes her head. “You needed it,” she says, her voice still unusually gentle. Then, in a more Chloe fashion, she adds, “You looked like shit.” Rachel swats at her arm and Chloe laughs. Her joy and the slowly fading daylight make the blue in Chloe’s eyes shine in a way that warms Rachel from head to toe.

“Thank you, Chloe,” Rachel says without meaning to. Not sarcastically like she usually does--it’s quiet and genuine and a little more vulnerable than she wanted it to be. Chloe seems to freeze as she hears her, her laughter quickly exchanged for a blank stare. Then the stare slowly melts into the kind of smile Rachel hasn’t seen on Chloe’s face in a long, long time.

“‘Course,” she mumbles. They look at each other, and Rachel feels like she should do something, say something. Before she can figure out what, Chloe swivels back toward her laptop. Rachel takes it as her cue that the moment is over. She shifts so that she’s leaning over Chloe’s desk, both hands planted on its surface.

“What are you up to?” she asks, because she’s trying to forget the pink she just saw in Chloe’s cheeks and the off-kilter beat of her own heart. She tilts the laptop screen back before Chloe has a chance to stop her, Chloe raising a hand and then pulling it back when she realizes it’s too late. 

“Oh,” Rachel says quietly. The screen is filled with different internet windows, one with names of Oregon-based attorneys, another with legal defense strategies, and a last one with local missing persons cases. Chloe scratches nervously at the back of her head.

“I, uhh… was just doing some research,” she mutters. She reaches out and closes the laptop, completely avoiding Rachel’s line of sight. “I just started, though. I didn’t find out much.”

Rachel wants to throw her arms around Chloe and squeeze her until she starts to turn blue. But it would feel too intimate. It would mean too much. She doesn’t want to give Chloe the wrong idea.

So instead, she pretends not to notice Chloe’s embarrassment and keeps the mood light.

“My own personal defense lawyer. Honestly, I’d choose you over my dad a thousand times over.” Chloe snorts, and Rachel knows she’s accomplished her goal.

“Well, you may want to reconsider. I’ve gotten chewed out for trespassing, tagging, underage drinking, and general teenage mayhem probably more than any other person in this zip code.” Rachel laughs, and fuck does it feel good.

“Then it sounds like you’re just the right person to defend me.” She leans up from the desk and goes to sit on the edge of Chloe’s bed. She beckons Chloe over, and Chloe flops face-up onto the mattress. Rachel lies down beside her. 

“So,” Rachel starts, “what legal advice do you have for me, your honorable Judge Price?”

“Advice? Well, speaking as someone who is a good samaritan and has definitely not had multiple run-ins with the law, I’d say…” Chloe pauses, thinking. “Lay low,” she says finally. 

“Lay low?” Rachel repeats.

“Yeah,” Chloe says, suddenly serious. “If anyone asks if you saw Nathan, definitely don’t lie. Use what you know happened to your advantage.”

“Oh? Love that you’re giving me advice on lying,” Rachel says with a snort. “Takes me back.”

“To what?” asks Chloe, and Rachel smiles.

“The first time we hung out together. Two truths, one lie.” Chloe looks at her thoughtfully, then back up at the ceiling.

“Yeah, well, after spending three years with you, I guess I learned a bit about lying myself.” It’s a deflection, a joke, but it throbs in Rachel’s chest. If only Chloe knew. 

“Okay,” Rachel says, rolling her eyes so Chloe won’t see the hurt behind them. “Use what happened to my advantage. What does that entail?”

“Okay, so you don’t know how you got from the party to the fucked up panic room, right?” 

“Right.”

“So keep that part of your story. You wound up at my house and you don’t know how. Just leave out all the shit in the middle.”

“That seems like a hell of a lot to leave out, Chlo.”

“Yeah, but it’s kind of true. We’re just changing the locations: doomsday bunker to my place. Don’t leave Prickscott out of it, though. You can say something like… like you vaguely remember him walking you somewhere, or that you remember people telling you that you left with him.”

“I’m not sure if people did see me leave with him,” Rachel confesses. “I mean, considering the shit he did, I wouldn’t be surprised if he laid low.” Chloe rubs her chin, deep in thought, and Rachel suddenly has the silly idea of giving her a pipe.

“Okay,” Chloe starts, “say you remember being with him. That part is true. And then when they ask where you were together, say you don’t remember.” Chloe pauses again, thinking. “Tell them the truth so they don’t think you’re hiding anything else. You can say you got kinda wasted, maybe even that you think someone spiked your drink. That’ll take the heat off you.” Rachel’s eyebrows raise as she considers this.

“That’s actually kind of smart,” she says, bemused.

“Obviously. I’m smart as fuck.” Rachel laughs. She can’t say she’s happy, but considering her current circumstances, this is probably as close to it as she can get. She’s glad that she’s with Chloe at a time like this.

“Wait,” Rachel says suddenly, a thought surfacing in her head. “What if the spiked drink comes back to Nathan? What if that links me to him somehow? If they find out I did know he spiked my drink, that could be motive.”

“That’s a pretty big ‘if’, though,” Chloe points out. “Plus, you can use the drunk-as-shit card, you know? ‘Oh my god, I was so wasted, I could barely even walk. Nathan probably had to drag me around,’ or whatever. You can’t hurt someone if you can’t even walk. The spiked drink will help with that, too.”

“Okay,” Rachel says thoughtfully. It’s not a bad plan, really. Rachel didn’t get much sleep and there’s probably still booze and drugs in her system, but it feels foolproof enough. “Okay. So I left the party with Nathan, which is true, but I don’t remember how--which is also true. Then at some point I wound up here.”

“Yeah,” Chloe says, her voice a little faraway. Contemplating. “You don’t want to tell them you were at Blackwell if you don’t have anything to back it up. We don’t know what Punkscott told everyone else, if he said anything at all.”

“Have I mentioned I love the way you keep coming up with shitty nicknames for him? It’s really attractive.” Chloe laughs.

“No, but I wouldn’t mind hearing it more.” And at that moment, things feel normal. Lying around, giggling together and giving each other shit. Rachel finds she missed those times. 

Now, her life is about plotting how to get away with murder. It’s genuinely shocking how fucked up her life had become in such a short span of time.

Rachel pushes the thought away, bumps her shoulder against Chloe’s. “Don’t get used to it,” she says, “I’m supposed to be the spoiled one here.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Chloe grumbles. “The rich girl always gets what she wants, I know.” Rachel chuckles, gives Chloe a light shove, and Chloe laughs again.

“Asshat.” And Rachel truly wants to keep things light, wants to keep pretending like everything is the same as always. But she knows she can’t. She has to get through what happened with Nathan, with the binders, with Mark. 

With Mark.

“Getting back to this whole Mystery Bunker thing, though,” Rachel quickly says to dispel Mark from her mind. Chloe gives her a firm nod.

“Right. Okay. I know you might not want to get into detail, but, uhh… Is there anything in that bunker that could tie this back to you?” 

Rachel groans, rubs her temples. “I don’t know,” she admits. “At the time, I thought I did an okay job of tying up any loose ends, but I... I was still pretty fucked up from… everything. I could have missed something.”

“Okay,” Chloe begins, drumming her fingers against her thigh, “what would be the big things you’d want to make sure were taken care of?”

“DNA,” Rachel answers almost immediately. She’d seen her fair share of true crime shows and had certainly heard of even more cases from her dickbag father. “That’s always how they get you. A used cigarette butt, half a fingerprint in the wrong place.” Rachel sighs. “But I don’t think there’s really any way to take care of that, at least not now. I don’t know. Maybe they won’t even find the bunker.”

“Maybe, but this is the Prescotts we’re talking about. They’ve got the cops in their back pocket and enough money to buy the whole town just to search it.” The more Rachel thinks about the Prescotts’ resources, the more the coil of dread in her stomach winds itself tighter.

Chloe must sense it, because she feels a gentle touch to her knee.

“Sorry, babe,” Chloe says gently. She lightly traces her fingertips along Rachel’s skin, and Rachel feels ten degrees warmer. “I don’t want to freak you out. I just… We gotta be realistic.”

Rachel swallows hard and shifts ever so slightly, hoping Chloe gets the hint. Chloe removes her hand, it seems, almost without thinking, like she already knew what Rachel wanted. Without the contact, Rachel’s mind feels clearer.

“I know,” Rachel finally sighs. “I know we have to take this seriously. It’s just… this is all so fucked, Chloe. I don’t even know how this happened. Nathan’s gone, and I’m suspect number one.”

“Hey,” Chloe says sternly, “you’re not a suspect of anything. Not yet. We can do this, Rach. We will do this.” 

So they go over the possibilities again like they did the night before: no, Nathan’s phone wasn’t an issue (because it was in cinders, but Chloe didn’t need to know that); yes, she did touch the binders, but she didn’t think she touched anything else; no, she didn’t leave any photos Nathan had taken of her behind. Their assessment continues for about twenty minutes before Rachel feels relatively secure that she can’t be traced back to the bunker. At least, not for a while.

That was where the second, albeit more difficult, part of the plan came in: find the fucker behind the binders before any of this could come back to her.

“Any ideas?” Chloe asks. 

It’s the perfect opening to come clean. Not about everything, of course, but at least the fact that Nathan may have had an accomplice: just the love of her life. 

“Not really,” Rachel mumbles. She already dislikes herself immensely, and her sense of self-hatred only amplifies as she perpetuates the lie. But it wasn’t a lie if it wound up being true, right? She would find a way to absolve Mark on her own. Once she knew for certain for herself that he was innocent--which he undoubtedly was--there wouldn’t even be a point in telling Chloe. 

“All I know is that Nathan couldn’t have done it alone,” Rachel goes on. “The style of the pictures was kind of… different. I can’t really describe it, but the photos he took of me weren’t as…” She shivers involuntarily, and her sentence ends there. “There were girls I’d never seen in those binders, too.”

“Right,” Chloe murmurs, tapping at her chin. “Okay. Then we need to think about access. Who has a way of getting around Arcadia and connections to girls from different schools?”

“Could be anyone,” says Rachel bitterly. “I mean, pretty much everyone at Blackwell has a car.” Rachel pauses. “Maybe those girls weren’t even from here. I know pretty much everyone worth knowing in Arcadia.” 

“So modest,” Chloe says with a roll of her eyes. Rachel snorts.

“All right, that sounded bad. But I’ve been to basically every party in Arcadia Bay, even some of the community college ones--”

“Oh yeah! Man, those parties have the best booze. None of that Natty Ice shit.”

“And the best weed. But what I mean is, I probably would have recognized at least one of those girls if they were from here.”

“Okay. So we’re dealing with someone who either came to Arcadia recently, in which case, that fucking sucks for them. Or, we’re dealing with someone who travels in and out of Arcadia a lot, in which case, they should probably just not fucking come back.” Rachel laughs.

“Agreed. It’s not the biggest lead, but let’s start thinking of some people who would fit that description.” 

Chloe frowns and shakes her head. “I already have someone in mind,” she says, her voice almost a growl. Rachel’s lips purse.

“Already?” she asks, a crease appearing between her brows. 

Chloe nods. “Yeah,” she replies, still scowling, “our friendly neighborhood drug dealer.”

“Frank?” Rachel asks, stunned. Another nod from her blue-haired best friend.

“Just think about it, Rach. First of all, he’s scummy as hell. Second of all, he has a piss-soaked RV, so we know he can come and go whenever he wants. Third of all, everyone in Arcadia gets their shit from him, Prudescott included.”

Chloe did have a point. She’d seen the way Frank would look down her shirt when he thought she was distracted, how’d lick his chapped lips whenever she showed up on his doorstep in Daisy Dukes. But just because Frank was a pig didn’t mean he was dangerous.

Rachel says as much aloud. “I don’t know, Chlo. Frank is gross, yeah, but I don’t think it was him.”

“Seriously?” Chloe says with a snort. “I mean, he’s an okay guy, I guess--when he’s not leering at your tits.” Rachel prickles at that. Frank isn’t innocent, and she knows that. But he’s not a bad person, either. Hearing Chloe say something so crude about him in such a cavalier way really doesn’t sit well with her.

“Look, like I said: I know he’s gross. But he wouldn’t take pictures like that, Chloe. He’s harmless.” Chloe gives a bark of a laugh.

“Really, Rach? Because we both know he’s killed at least one person in cold blood.”

Okay, that was kind of true. Maybe “harmless” wasn’t the right word to describe Frank Bowers. But she knew he would never pose a threat to her--he looked at her the same way Chloe did. In fact, Rachel thinks whimsically, if Frank had even the slightest idea of what Nathan had done to her, he would have killed Nathan himself. Would have saved her a lot of trouble, really.

“Yeah, okay. He killed Damon, but you told me that Damon literally stabbed him. That would’ve been self-defense.” She thinks back to Nathan. “He wouldn’t hurt someone who didn’t deserve it.

“I mean seriously,” Rachel continues, “can you imagine Frank drugging teenage girls?”

“Uhh, yeah.” Chloe replies. Her feet swing back and forth over the edge of the bed as though they’re discussing something far more lighthearted. “One hundred percent I can.”

“But for the fun of it?” Rachel impatiently adds. “For art? You know just as well as I do that Frank doesn’t give a flying fuck about art.”

“We don’t know that for sure!” Chloe desperately rebuts. She turns her body so she points right at Rachel. “We know Frank went to Blackwell when he was our age. He could be a fucked up, psycho photographer in his spare time and we would never even know. Is it really that hard to believe?”

Rachel sighs. She doesn’t want to have this argument with Chloe. Not right now. 

“Those photos weren’t Frank; I can just tell. The same way I know Nathan didn’t take them, Frank didn’t, either. There’s just… something about them.” It isn’t just the composition or the subjects that strike Rachel as wrong--it’s the feeling behind them. The mind behind those photos was far darker than Frank’s was capable of even being.

“I know Frank has some… less than admirable qualities,” Rachel went on. “We both know that. But how many times has he saved our asses when we’ve gotten into trouble? Frank has saved our lives, Chlo. He’s not a malicious person.”

“Are we talking about the same Frank Bowers?” Chloe says. She’s becoming increasingly incredulous. “Doing something good every once in a while doesn’t mean you’re not a bad person.”

Rachel huffs with annoyance. “Again, we know he’s not the best, but he’s not the worst. He’s not the type of person who would intentionally drug anyone. For one, he’d have to dip into his own supply, and I don’t think he’s willing to do that.” Chloe opens her mouth to disagree, but Rachel holds up a hand. 

“More than that, you know Frank is basically Pompidou. He looks mean and scary, but he’s a sad-eyed puppy dog when it comes down to it. Even if he had a reason to drug all of these girls, he would never actually do it. He’s fucked up, yes, but not in that way. Not like that.”

“How do you know? You mention Pompidou like he picked him up at the pound, but he used to be a dog fighter. A dog fighter, Rach. What kind of sick person makes dogs fight for fun?”

“He stopped, and you know he rescued a bunch of those dogs!”

“Why are you defending him?” Chloe shouts back, her voice almost a screech. Rachel jumps a little, taken aback. Chloe flushes, then glances down at the carpet. 

“I’m sorry,” Chloe says finally, still refusing to make eye contact. “I’m just… ugh. I don’t know. I want to have an answer. I want to get this shit over with.” She shakes her head. “I don’t want you to be scared anymore or worried or… whatever.” Rachel releases a deep breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Even though she knows better, she reaches for Chloe’s hand. Chloe intertwines their fingers without a moment’s hesitation.

“It’s okay,” Rachel murmurs. She means it. She really does. “I know. I just want this to be over, too. But I don’t want to accuse someone without proof. Especially not Frank. You’ve been saying it all this time, and you’re right; Frank is a little unhinged. I wouldn’t want to get on his bad side unless I had to.”

She’s also pushing drugs for him. It would certainly make things complicated, at the least, if they were to involve him. Of course, Rachel doesn’t mention that part.

Chloe lets out a shaky chuckle. “Yeah,” she agrees. “Yeah, you’re right. I’ll keep Frank in the back of my head, but I’ll look for more proof first.” Rachel also tries to laugh, but it’s not too convincing.

“I’m also the last person I expected to defend Frank Bowers, but… I just want to give him a chance.” It surprises her a little, but it’s true. Not just because of the money; she only started selling for Frank so that she and Chloe would have enough money to finally escape Arcadia Bay. Once Mark was in the picture, she wasn’t even sure she wanted that anymore. The money she had worked so hard to get barely meant anything now.

More than anything, she hates the thought of pinning something on Frank that he clearly didn’t do. It especially twists her gut when she remembers the longing behind his eyes whenever she’s around him. She’s hurt him enough as it is. She can’t do this, too.

Rachel squeezes Chloe’s hand without thinking, and Chloe squeezes back. Just like Frank, Chloe is too good to her.

“Can we smoke?” Rachel asks suddenly. “I just want to… just for a bit--”

“You don’t need to explain,” Chloe reassures her, already getting up from the bed. “I’ll put on that mix you made me, too, even though ‘Hollaback Girl’ is on it.” Rachel feels some of the tension leaving her body.

“It’s iconic,” Rachel says with a hint of a smile.

“Iconic? I dunno. I would say it’s more bananas,” Chloe replies. She rolls her eyes, but there’s a hint of a smile there, too.

Tomorrow, she’ll have to go back to Blackwell. She’ll have to face the other partygoers, Mark, maybe Wells. The police might even be there right at first period, waiting with a warrant in her name and a pair of handcuffs.

But right now, that doesn’t matter. Right now, she focuses on the herbal taste on her tongue and the burn in her lungs until everything is fuzzy and slow. There’s only the music and Chloe, only this room, and nothing else matters.

Until tomorrow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, there was a bit of a break between chapters there. I try to aim to update about every two weeks or so, but then... a lot of really good video games came out... so...
> 
> But hey, it's here! The story itself is moving a bit more slowly and fleshing itself out more than I thought it would. Still, even if this was a slower chapter, hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Until next time!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey Ao3, what up and stuff
> 
> It's been a whiiiile since I've written something here. Not entirely sure what direction this story will take, but if you're okay with following a story like that, then thank you and welcome!
> 
> Of course, I've gotta give credit where it's due. My pal aratron/Dwarrow25 is the beta for this fic! They're writing the astounding "The Ground Beneath Her Feet" which you should totally check out. Who doesn't love powers, revenge, and Amberpricefield?
> 
> Also need to say, when I first revisited this story and considered posting it, there was another fic published at the same time with the same premise. I'd like to call attention to it because I think it'll be fun to see the directions where our stories head despite having the same initial idea. It's called "Baptized in a river of fire" by ANarrativist. I think it's their first fic, too, so go check it out!
> 
> All right, see ya soon


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